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FIC: Tangled Web (What’s Past is Prologue 15/18)

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  • Mo
    Tangled Web (What’s Past is Prologue 15/18) “I’m glad you came,” Rick said, kissing Jean-Paul briefly and ushering him in. “Moi aussi.” “Did you
    Message 1 of 1 , Aug 1, 2005
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      Tangled Web (What’s Past is Prologue 15/18)

      “I’m glad you came,” Rick said, kissing Jean-Paul
      briefly and ushering him in.

      “Moi aussi.”

      “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

      Jean-Paul shook his head. “I used to live not far from
      here. I know places to land around here.”

      They sat down together in the living room. “I’m still
      kind of struggling to assimilate that information.”

      “What information?”

      “That you can fly.”

      Jean-Paul shrugged. “You saw me flying. When I was
      being ‘menacing,’ remember?” Rick opened his mouth to
      say something, but Jean-Paul stopped him. “I know, I
      know. You didn’t mean anything personal by it.” He
      touched Rick on the arm. “I believe you, copain. And I
      understand it is hard to assimilate, as you say. Lots
      of people feel that way at first. Particularly those
      who haven’t been around mutants much.”

      “You’re the first mutant I ever met. Well, as far as I
      know. I wouldn’t have known you’re one if you hadn’t
      told me.”

      “I figured if you’re sucking mutant cock, you ought to
      know it. It scares some off, but I’d rather they be
      scared off, hein? And for others it counts for me.
      Exotic, I guess. Sort of like you liking uncut men.”
      Neither of them said anything for a minute. “Can I ask
      you something?” he added.

      “Sure.”

      “What’s it like, where you work? A place like that? I
      can’t imagine working there.”

      “It’s not like everybody’s Moonies, if that’s what you
      think. Or homophobic or anti-mutant.”

      “So, what are they like? Your colleagues?”

      “I don’t know. Just regular people. I don’t know what
      to say. What are yours like?”

      Jean-Paul thought for a minute before answering.
      “Committed, strong, capable. Lots of different
      personalities. Some clash, but never while we’re on a
      mission. A motley crew in a lot of ways, but some are
      among my best friends. And every one of them I trust,
      completely. It was like that at Alpha Flight, but even
      more so with the X-Men. We live together as well as
      work together. We depend on one another for our lives.
      It’s not just a job.”

      “It’s not like that with my colleagues, obviously.
      Mine *is* just a job, like any other. It’s a tough
      field to get a job and keep it. I’m glad to have a
      good one. I just try to find things out, tell the
      public what’s going on. I’m not responsible for the
      editorial content of the paper. It’s just a regular
      place.”

      “Do your colleagues know you have a date with a mutant
      this weekend?”

      “I don’t talk about things like that at work. I try to
      keep my personal and professional lives separate.”

      “They don’t know you’re gay?”

      “It’s none of their business.”

      There was an uncomfortable silence. Jean-Paul broke it
      by saying, “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about work at all.
      I’ve said as much as I can about mine; you don’t need
      to tell me about yours.”

      “I think I should say something else, and then we can
      just drop the work talk. I know it’s an uncomfortable
      subject for both of us. But I need to make one thing
      clear first.” And then he stopped again, as if not
      sure how to proceed. Finally, he said, “I’m not done
      writing about the X-Men.”

      “Rick. I can’t tell you anything. I thought you
      understood that.”

      “I do understand. I’m not looking for information from
      you. I just... well, it sounded from what you said on
      the phone like you thought the memorial service piece
      was all I was writing. I didn’t want you feeling...
      deceived, or surprised even, if you hear I wrote
      something else.”

      “I appreciate that.” They looked at each other. “This
      is awkward, hein?”

      “Yes. Very.”

      “Can you tell me what you’re working on, beyond the
      memorial service?” Seeing Rick’s expression, he
      quickly added. “I’ll understand if you can’t. I won’t
      talk to you about my work, so I can’t fault you if you
      won’t tell me about yours.”

      “I don’t mind telling you. I don’t want you to be
      blindsided.” He didn’t say anything for a few minutes.
      “I’ve got nothing against mutants, really.”

      “You’ve said that a few times.”

      “I know. I’m saying it too much, I realize that. It’s
      just... well, there are some real issues here. They’re
      worth writing about, worth thinking about. I am
      thinking about them, and writing about them, and it’s
      not because of anti-mutant prejudice. Issues like the
      power – the covert power – that someone like Charles
      Xavier was able to wield. Some of it coming from his
      mutation, some from his wealth. The influence a man
      like that had on our government, on our president –
      these are things the public has a right to know.”

      “He was a good man, Rick. I knew him, you didn’t. His
      influence was not from his powers, not from his
      wealth. Or not mostly from those things. He had a
      vision, one of tolerance and peace. He was truly
      charismatic and truly caring. There are good people in
      the world. He was one of them.”

      “I don’t doubt his charisma. He clearly had a powerful
      personality. But I’m finding things out about him...”
      He looked like he might say more, but changed the
      subject abruptly. “Not all mutants have powers like
      yours, you know. Some of them really are dangerous.
      Lots don’t mean to be, but when mutants start
      manifesting, all sorts of things can happen. People
      have been hurt, killed even.”

      “Oui. I know it. My friends, Wendy and Arthur –
      Wendy’s the one you thought I was married to, hein?
      Well, their little girl has already manifested. She’s
      a telekinetic. Came into her powers very early, at
      four. Telekinesis – particularly uncontrolled
      telekinesis – can be dangerous. But, Rick. Making
      people frightened of children is not the answer.
      Understanding, helping kids learn to control their
      powers, that’s the answer.”

      “Your friends with the mutant daughter – they’re
      mutants, too?”

      “Oui.”

      “Well, maybe it’s easier for them then.”

      “C’est vrai. They knew more of what to do, weren’t
      frightened of the possibility of having a mutant
      child. Most mutants are born into normal families, to
      normal parents, many of whom can’t handle it when kids
      come into their powers. It’s a little like being gay,
      n’est-ce pas? Not what parents expect from their kids.
      Different, frightening. But the answer isn’t to
      intensify the fear and the suspicion. The answer is
      more tolerance, more acceptance, more support. The
      answer is more people like Charles Xavier, who provide
      a home and an education to kids who don’t have either
      one.”

      “He didn’t provide a home for his own son.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Xavier wasn’t the saint you make him out to be.”

      “I don’t think he was a saint, just a good person,
      vraiment.”

      “Scott Summers is his illegitimate son. Did you know
      that? By some maid working at one of his many homes.
      And your Professor Xavier had nothing to do with him
      for most of his childhood. Xavier’s name’s on the
      birth certificate as father, but he wouldn’t give him
      his last name, wouldn’t marry her. And beyond
      accepting paternity at birth – nothing, as far as I
      can tell. I haven’t found the mother yet, but it looks
      like she raised him all by herself. He probably sent
      her money, but he never acknowledged Scott Summers as
      his son, not when he was a child, not before he became
      a mutant. And it looks like Maria Summers was one of
      those ones who couldn’t handle a mutant son. Either
      that or Scott Summers couldn’t handle being one. He
      ran away when he came into his powers. And you know
      what he did then?”

      “What?”

      “He was a prostitute. Sucking cock for money for over
      a year. Not quite the image he presents to the public
      now, huh? And then all of a sudden once Xavier finds
      out his kid's a mutant, he gets interested in him.
      Takes him to his mansion, dresses him up, sends him to
      Columbia. Tries to turn him into somebody respectable.
      Field Leader of the X-Men. Teaching English to high
      school kids. And now, since his father's death,
      hobnobbing with world leaders. But he's still the same
      guy who was giving blow jobs in back alleys for ten
      bucks.”

      “For a guy who was sucking my cock five minutes after
      we met, you’re sounding awfully judgmental about Scott
      Summers.”

      “I wasn’t doing it for money.” Disgust in his voice.

      “Maybe you never had to.”

      They looked at each other, neither saying anything.
      “I’m sorry,” Rick said, after a while. “This is just
      not something we’re likely to see eye-to-eye on.”

      “D’accord. Let’s drop the topic, hein?”

      “Fine.”

      “Can we go to the bedroom?”

      “Yes. Please.”

      ************************************************************************

      Rick’s bed was a large brass-framed four poster. The
      two men were on it soon, legs entwined, kissing,
      pulling off each other’s clothing. Their disagreement
      seemed forgotten. “I’ve wanted this, wanted you,” Rick
      whispered in Jean-Paul’s ear, stroking Jean-Paul’s
      hard cock slowly.

      “Moi aussi.” After a few minutes, Jean-Paul said, “I
      want to try something different.”

      “What?”

      Jean-Paul kissed him deeply, rubbing their cocks
      together with his hand. “You’ll see,” he said. “Wait
      here.” And he got up from the bed, heading out to the
      living room.

      He came back quickly, hanging his shoulder bag over
      one of the brass posts and pulling something out of
      it. Bright chrome handcuffs, shining in the lamplight.
      “What do you say, copain?” he asked. “Would you let
      me?”

      Rick nodded. “Where? How?”

      “Put your hands up here.” Jean-Paul secured his wrists
      around one of the posts of the bed. “Ah, you look good
      like that,” he said, and reached back into his bag. He
      came out with a camera and began to snap pictures of
      Rick, laid out on the bed, naked, handcuffed to it,
      erection sticking up from his reclining body.

      “Jean-Paul! I don’t... please don’t...”

      “Come on. Don’t you trust me? Who’s going to see them
      but me? It’s a digital camera.” And then he was
      straddling Rick’s chest, camera still in hand. “Open
      your mouth,” he said, pushing his hard cock in when
      Rick complied with the request, taking pictures as he
      fucked Rick’s mouth. “This is what I want to remember,
      how you look with your mouth full of my cock.” Rick
      sucked hard, his objections seemingly forgotten.

      And then Jean-Paul was pulling out of his mouth,
      eliciting disappointed sounds from the man under him.
      “Lift your legs, Rick,” he said, getting off of Rick,
      standing by the side of the bed, snapping more
      pictures.

      “Are you going to fuck me now? There’s lube in the
      nightstand.”

      Jean-Paul shook his head. “No. You can put your legs
      down. I’m not going to fuck you. Not now, not ever.”
      The smile had vanished from his face. “I’m not going
      to fuck a self-hating, sneaky hypocrite like you.
      Kissing you, touching you, pretending to like you was
      bad enough.”

      “What’s going on?”

      “I only came here to take these pictures and to tell
      you what to do,” Jean-Paul said, pulling his pants on,
      reaching for his shirt. “So, listen carefully. I’m
      going to tell you now what you will and will not do,
      and those pictures are my insurance. They’re how I
      know you’ll do exactly what I tell you to.” He took
      the camera over to where Rick could see the pictures,
      as he flipped through the ones he’d just taken. “Some
      nice ones, hein? Good close-up there. Oh, nice big
      smile in that one. And here you are licking the head
      of my cock. Here you are sucking it in. You’re very
      photogenic.”

      Rick was sputtering, cursing and demanding to be
      released. Jean-Paul didn’t answer any of that. “Shut
      up,” he said. “And listen to me. I’m about to tell you
      what you’re going to do. You’re not going to talk to
      Cyclops’s mother. You’re leaving that poor woman
      alone. You’re not going to investigate Scott Summers
      at all. Not his personal life. He's one of the
      colleagues I was telling you about, one of the ones I
      owe my life to. I'm not letting you humiliate him. So
      go ahead and write whatever alarmist, paranoid
      conspiracy stories about the X-Men and our mission
      that you want. Give your bloodsucking employer
      whatever they want from you that way. But you write
      one personal word about Scott Summers or any of the
      X-Men - you reveal one secret Scott’s *mother*
      wouldn’t want to read in a newspaper - and nice big
      glossy prints of the pictures in here get sent out
      right away. To your editor who doesn’t even know
      you’re gay, much less that you like it when a man
      handcuffs you to your bed and shoves his cock down
      your throat. To your just-regular-folks colleagues,
      who might be amused to see these. And to your parents,
      who probably won’t be. In Bethesda, n’est-ce pas? I
      bet they’d love to see some new pictures of their son.
      Got some good ones. You sure looked happy...”

      “You wouldn’t!”

      “Oui. I would. And since I would, you’d better not.”
      He’d finished dressing and started putting the camera
      away. He held up a key. “I’ll leave this on the dining
      room table.”

      “You’re going to leave me like this?”

      “Here.” He took the phone from its cradle and put it
      down by Rick’s head. “It might take a little doing,
      but you should be able to dial. I’ll leave the door
      open. That way you don’t have to call the fire
      department or a locksmith. Call a friend to come get
      you out. If you have any.”


      Mo
      Mofic Website: www.angelfire.com/comics/mo
      www.livejournal.com/users/mofic

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